Monk

BuddhaImage rights: Hartwig HKD

A bald, barefooted man, dressed in white, stands at the kitchen sink waving his hands around his head fending off imaginary flies. Sitting at the table is a rotund man, wearing a red t-shirt.  He turns to look at us and grins. His smile is enigmatic and infectious.

            Later he confides his assessment ends in three days and that the reason for him being here is due to someone telling him to ‘run the hell away and become a monk.’

I study his face. He has a neat anchor beard tied in not. His features are soft; he appears to have a peaceful, good natured aura.

‘What’s wrong with becoming a monk?’ I ask.

‘It’s not much use to me, when I wake up in the morning and there’s a girl in my room.’ He answers and then offers me a pickled onion from a jar he bought from the supermarket because he was bored.

‘Good choice,’ I say, ‘onions are full of nutrients which promote well-being.’

The next time I see him, he’s en route to the supermarket again and the breeze lifts his hair from his collar. He radiates happiness as he walks and I feel an affinity with his id.

‘I’m free,’ he says, meaning his assessment period is over, ‘but my voices are troubling me, so I’ll be staying on a voluntary basis.’

‘And why not.’ I answer, admiring the wisdom in his words.

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